


Hands

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Fetish, Hand porn, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nico has a fetish for Adrian's hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> for Val

They're sitting in the hotel lounge, soft drinks set in front of them alongside a complimentary dish of nuts no one wants and a glossy magazine extolling the delights of Montreal. Lewis is sprawled on a leather sofa, legs wide, mirrored shades pushed back on his head. Adrian perches on a chair, seated side-on, one leg crossed over the other. He looks neat, composed. Nico lounges in an armchair and stares into middle distance, blocking out the genteel sound of hotel chatter as he worries at his thumb with teeth and tongue.

Lewis holds forth about an interview he and Jenson are doing tonight. Adrian cocks his head attentively and makes the occasional comment. Nico half listens to them, not to what they're saying but to the way they're saying it. His own mind spins through the meeting he's just had with the team: Ross, smiling like he always does, the odour of insincerity forming a halo around him, and Michael demure beside him, eyes downcast and the suggestion of amused triumph on his face. Montreal is Michael's track. Michael will shine here. Make no mistake about it.

Nico slides his tongue-tip over his thumbnail. He tickles down and across the first knuckle then presses his tongue against the nail, sucking on his thumb for a moment before he realises what he's doing. Hurriedly he takes his thumb from his mouth and shakes himself from his thoughts.

Adrian is looking at him with a quizzical expression. Nico forces a bright smile and glances around the lounge to hide the blush climbing to his cheeks.

Lewis stretches and checks his watch. "Nicole should be here by now. Why do women take so long to get changed? It's not like we're going out to dinner somewhere posh. It's just that pizza place Felipe mentioned."

No answer seems to be required. Lewis taps his feet, his boredom sudden and obvious. He whistles tunelessly, then points to the other side of the lounge. "A piano. Come on, Mr Piano Man. Let's have some music while we wait."

Adrian turns in his chair and studies the instrument. "You think they'd let me...?"

"Man." Lewis stands and claps Adrian on the shoulder. "You're an F1 driver. They'd let you do anything. They'd probably thank you if you trashed the piano."

"I wouldn't do that." Adrian's back stiffens slightly. "No one should do that."

"Joking. C'mon." Lewis is away, crossing the floor and heading for the grand piano. Adrian looks at Nico, then gets to his feet. After a moment, Nico follows.

"Play _Chopsticks_ ," Lewis says with a grin.

Adrian snorts and sits down. "How about Chopin?" He moves his hands across the keys, at first barely touching, as if he's getting the measure of the instrument, and then he presses down, stroking music out of the piano, a glorious wash of sound.

Nico watches. The melody pulls at him, complex and emotional. He focuses on Adrian's hands, on his fingers. Nico swallows and leans against the body of the piano. His reflection glows up at him, muted in the polished surface. He can't look at himself.

Lewis presses a couple of keys at random, ugly counterpoint to Adrian's melody. "No, man. None of that poncey classical shit. Play some real music."

Adrian sighs and picks up the pace, fingers stabbing at the keys as the tune elides into a hot ragtime. He leans into the music, long fringe flopping as his body moves, feet working the pedals.

"No, no, no! Jazz is for girls. Play something cutting-edge, man. Something cool." Lewis fiddles with the sheet music resting on top of the piano. "Jeez, look at this shit. Golden oldies. Music to snooze to. A selection of supermarket hits."

"I liked the Chopin," Nico offers. "And the jazz."

"You have no taste, man. No taste whatsoever."

With a wicked smile, Adrian switches from jazz to a Celine Dion song.

Lewis clutches his head, dislodging his shades. "Ergh, what the fuck!" He slams his hands down on the keys, disrupting the tune. Adrian continues playing, moving to the other side of the piano stool and picking up the song in a lower key. Lewis howls, and they scuffle.

Nico winces at the sounds now emerging from the piano. He steps forward. "Teach me."

Adrian shoves at Lewis and looks at Nico in surprise. "What?"

Nico holds out his hands, spreads his fingers. "Teach me to play the piano."

Lewis leans over Adrian's shoulder. "He was supposed to be teaching me first."

Adrian reaches up and flicks one of Lewis' pierced ears. "Except you have a girlfriend here who would probably prefer it if you spent time with her rather than trying to play the piano."

Lewis chuckles and bats at Adrian. "But if I learn how to play, Nicole could do a sing-along. You know, like Michelle Pfeiffer in that movie? Nicole stretched out on top of the piano in a tight dress. That would be hot."

"Her heels would scuff the polish." Nico lifts a hand to his mouth and nibbles the edge of his index finger.

"My God, what are you like." Lewis rolls his eyes. "Imagination, Rosberg. It's a good thing to have."

"Apparently." Nico progresses to his thumbnail. He sets his teeth to the very tip of the nail, not quite biting, just pressing down until he can feel the resistance.

Lewis looks past him, expression brightening. "Hey, there's my girl. Gotta go. Catch you later."

Nico glances over his shoulder and sees Nicole standing in the doorway. She waves, bracelets jangling, then cuddles up to Lewis as he joins her. They wander away without a backward glance. Nico watches them leave, then switches from English to German. "Does he really want to learn how to play the piano?"

"Do you?" Adrian reclaims the centre of the stool. He plays a few chords, ending in a flourish, then looks up. "Are you okay?"

Nico takes his hand from his mouth. The first joint of his thumb is wet with saliva, and he wipes it surreptitiously against the back of his jeans. "Yeah. Fine."

"You seem different recently."

Adrian turns back to the piano, spreads his hands wide to cover the keys. His fingers are long and elegant, their span wide. Nico stares at those hands and aches with a twisted kind of yearning. He wants Adrian's hands, but the thought confuses him. He's not sure _how_ he wants Adrian's hands—on him, in him? His bewilderment excites him. Nico doesn't like being out of control, but when it happens—and it does, he makes sure it does—it excites him beyond anything else.

"Nico?" Adrian doesn't look at him, but pauses in his playing, the notes echoing and blurring.

Pulling himself together, Nico tries to remember what they were talking about. He frowns, brushes the long streaks of blond hair from his forehead. A nervous habit, just like biting his nail and sucking his thumb—a childish habit, but one he's fallen back into these last few months. "Different?"

A ripple of sound from the piano. "Different," Adrian says again. He turns his head, gaze following his hands as they dance up the keyboard. "Not yourself. You seem... anxious. Uncertain." He emphasises his words with a trill, two notes rocking together, high and rapid. "Forgive me if I'm wrong. If I'm speaking out of turn."

"No." Nico nibbles his lower lip. "It's..."

"Michael." Adrian plays a flurry of discordant, minor notes, a half-smile curving his mouth. He flicks a glance at Nico. "Yes?"

Nico rests against the piano and folds his arms. He doesn't want to comment on the situation within his team. "Will you teach me?"

Adrian shifts over on the piano stool and pats the space beside him. "Sure. It takes patience and practice, though."

The words slice into Nico. "You think I lack those qualities."

Adrian stares. "I didn't say that." He looks startled, wounded, brown eyes soft. He looks down and takes Nico's right hand, guiding it to the keyboard. "Middle C. Press it. Harder. That's it. Can you feel it resonate?"

Nico can't feel anything but Adrian's touch. His fingers twitch beneath the warm weight of Adrian's hand. He'd give anything to turn his own hand palm up and entwine his fingers with Adrian's. Instead, Nico holds still and thunks hard on the note. He closes his eyes, feels the vibration run through him, and wonders if this is resonance.

"Feel it?" Adrian murmurs in his ear, and Nico nods. Adrian hums, modulating his tone to match the lingering sound of the note. "Anyone can play an instrument, but to succeed in music, you have to feel it."

"Like with driving," Nico says. Under Adrian's guidance, he splays his fingers and presses down, sounding a chord. The merging of the notes tickles deep in his belly, and he sucks in his stomach in reaction.

"Mm, like driving." Adrian nods and slides closer, putting his left arm around Nico to catch up the next handful of notes. "The difference between driving a road car and an F1 car."

Nico tries not to lean into Adrian. There's a resistance between their bodies, a tension. Breathless, Nico dips his head, letting his hair fall forward as a barrier. His hands work up the piano, one key at a time. Adrian controls each touch. Nico stares down at the keyboard, at his hands covered by Adrian's. He's never been so aware of the difference in their sizes before. Nico feels almost delicate.

"Want more?" Adrian asks.

"Yes." Nico stills his hands and turns within the circle of Adrian's arm.

Adrian drops his gaze and laughs, short and sharp, as false as a minor note. "Concentrate or you will never play well."

Nico cups one hand over Adrian's. "Teach me."

There's a moment of hesitation before Adrian slips his hand free. "Play that chord again." His eyes are shuttered, giving nothing away. Though they sit close together, he seems distant. "Good. Now go up an octave, like this..."

Nico takes a breath. He's ruined it. Cursing himself for his impatience, he gives his attention to the lesson. If he can't have Adrian, at least he can learn how to play well, just to beat Lewis.

* * * *

After the piano lesson, Nico suggests dinner. He doesn't want to go to his room yet, doesn't want to join Ross and Norbert in their satellite dance around Michael. Adrian seems pleased to agree, and they decide on the hotel restaurant. It's midweek and the place is quiet, with only a scattering of guests in attendance. None of them seem to be part of the F1 circus, for which Nico is grateful.

They sit at a banquette, the light dim around them, a candle in a glass holder placed in the centre of the table. Adrian reads the menu, pairing the foodstuffs of starts and mains with the same confidence with which he plays music. Depth of flavour, he explains. Resonance.

"Order for me," Nico says when the waiter approaches.

Adrian looks startled. "Okay."

Nico sits back in the squashy leather seat and lets his shoulders relax as Adrian gives their order. It's nice to relinquish control, even over something as small as choosing what to eat. Nico half-lids his eyes and fixes his gaze on Adrian's hands curled around the menu. Desire, nebulous and slow, spins lazily inside him.

The waiter leaves, returning a few minutes later with their drinks, sparkling water and dry white wine. Adrian decants the contents of one glass into the other, mixing the liquids. "So," he says, "you want to talk about Michael?"

Nico shoots a cautious look around the dining room. "No."

"You don't need to worry about him." Adrian takes a sip of his drink.

"I'm not."

Adrian nods, perhaps more in reaction to the taste of his self-mixed spritzer than to Nico's response. "You are. Look at you. Nervous. Wanting to learn how to play the piano..."

Nico scowls. "What about it?"

"Lewis wants to play the piano to impress Nicole. You want to play the piano because you're full of anxious tension." Adrian raises his eyebrows. "You could just buy some prayer beads if you need something to do with your hands."

"Or I could take up smoking." Nico falls silent as the waiter sets their starters in front of them. His plate contains shaped pasta with asparagus and parmesan shavings. Picking up his fork, Nico stabs at a pasta shell. "Wanting to play the piano has nothing to do with Michael or nerves or issues within the team."

"Then why now?"

Nico pauses for a heartbeat. Almost tells him. Backs away from it and offers a half-truth. "I just like the way your hands move on the keys. It's restful."

Adrian chuckles. "I don't believe you, but since I know you won't tell me..."

Now Nico feels guilty. He bows his head over the food and eats quickly, in silence. He knows Adrian is watching him. The weight of expectation burns him, but Nico stays quiet. How can he explain to Adrian what he barely understands himself?

"Good pasta," he says at length.

Adrian pushes his own plate aside. "Nico—"

Nico interrupts, asking an inane question. Adrian pauses, flashes Nico an annoyed look, then answers. Over their main courses the conversation rolls on, stilted at first, then easier as they cover everything from Eurovision to football. Even so, every now and then Adrian regards him with quick curiosity, and each time Nico's belly lifts and swoops.

They finish eating, and talk slides into silence once more. Adrian finishes the last of his drink. Nico leans one elbow on the table, his thumb pushing up between his lips, his teeth. Left hand this time—he has no preference. Ambidextrous thumb-sucking. The thought amuses him, then he forgets what he's thinking as he closes his teeth around his thumb. He slides the digit sideways, biting down on the pad of his thumb. The flesh dents. He lifts his tongue slightly and feels the rush of saliva beneath it. He sucks, the sensation familiar and soothing.

"You're doing it again." Adrian reaches over and tugs gently on Nico's sleeve, dislodging the thumb from his mouth.

Nico takes a startled breath. His thumb pops out with a wet sound. "Oh, God." A blush stings his cheeks, embarrassment hot and sour and violating the agreeable tastes of dinner. "I—it's not—"

Adrian looks at him, expression kind, sweet, non-judgmental.

"It's a stupid habit," Nico says. "Childish."

"At least you don't have a comfort blanket." The smile Adrian offers him is warm and understanding.

Nico pretends to hesitate. "Actually..."

They laugh, and the awkwardness is broken. The embarrassment lingers, though, and Nico puts both hands on the table in front of him. His thumb is slightly pink, the nail wet from his mouth. He's disgusted with himself and drops his hand to his lap, hiding his thumb beneath the drape of the tablecloth.

His Dad warned him about the habit. Nico closes his eyes. There are worse habits, but sucking his thumb surely counts amongst the most uncool and pathetic. He skitters through the reasons for doing it. Oral fixation. Desire for comfort. Need for familiarity. It's all of these things and none of them, and that's what confuses him so much. He thinks it started last season, when he stopped eating desserts. He associates sweetness with comfort, with reward. At Williams it was easy to deny himself chocolates and ice cream and cake, because the reward was in the racing, and even though he didn't win, he knew he was better than Kazuki.

His ultimate reward was the move to Mercedes. He thought he could play Jenson, and then Jenson joined McLaren and Michael came out of retirement, and where was the reward in that? It felt more like punishment, and he needed sweetness. Yet chocolate tasted sickly, and cake made him feel fat, and Nico took to chewing his nails. The splintering sound of breaking a nail between his teeth, the oddly pleasurable pain of tearing the tip of the nail away, the dead taste of it on his tongue—it morphed into sucking his thumb, a way of making the small hurt better.

It helped, and for a while he could control what he felt; but since Michael started turning the team into his own playground, Nico craves comfort, wants that sweetness. It's not enough to torment his own familiar flesh. He wants other hands. His engineer, his physio—but these hands are too workmanlike. He wants a certain delicacy of touch, an elegance—a driver's hands, an equal's hands. Not Michael's, never Michael's. Not Lewis' hands, either. Nelson, if he were here—his hands would feel wonderful, taste wonderful, but he's too far away.

Adrian's hands are perfect. Unbearably perfect. Nico hungers for them even while he tells himself he can't have them. He looks at Adrian's hands now, one around the stem of the wineglass, the other resting on the table. Nico thinks he's in love. He thinks he's sick. Anxiety screws tighter, and he wants to suck his thumb again.

The waiter reappears. "Dessert, guys? Our special tonight is chocolate cheesecake served with lime sauce."

"Not for me." Adrian waves his free hand in rejection.

Nico speaks up. "I'll have one. The cheesecake. Please."

Adrian looks at him in surprise, then turns to the server. "Then I guess I'll have a coffee, thanks." He hesitates, and when they're alone, says, "You never eat dessert."

"I need it." Nico curls his fingers into fists. Anything to stop the urge to bite, to chew, to suck. "It can't be that many calories. I'll go for a run tomorrow first thing and work it off."

Adrian makes a non-committal sound and changes the subject. He keeps up a soft, uncomplicated monologue about life in Switzerland as coffee and dessert arrive. Nico listens, eating too fast again. He barely tastes the cheesecake, though when Adrian asks, Nico tells him it's good, it's fantastic.

"Let me try." Adrian leans across and draws his finger across the plate, collecting a smudge of baked cream cheese and a liquid daub of sauce.

Nico's spoon clatters to the plate. He stares, mind shorting, body aching, emotions dazzled.

Adrian grins and starts to lift his hand.

Nico makes a tiny noise and seizes Adrian's wrist. He feels tension, resistance, then everything pales, everything fades, as he takes Adrian's finger into his mouth.

He slides it in past the first knuckle. Oh God, the taste, the sweetness. Now he appreciates the chocolate richness of the cheesecake, the vibrancy of the lime sauce. It's good, better than good, and Nico moans. He holds Adrian's finger carefully, gently, his grip on Adrian's wrist loose. His breath puffs from him, reality fluttering away. Adrian's finger is sucked clean, and now Nico tastes the nuances of skin. He thrusts his tongue along the underside, a rapid flick against the fingerprint whorls. He takes more, pushing to the second knuckle. The taste changes there. His teeth graze the back of Adrian's finger. Nico sinks into the sensation.

"Nico." Adrian is shocked, his eyes wide and his voice high, breathless. " _Nico_."

Awareness rocks Nico back. Appalled, he drops Adrian's hand. There's nothing he can say to excuse this. Bitterness gags him and he blunders to his feet. "God. Oh, shit. I'm sorry. Adrian, I'm sorry."

He stumbles away, shame clawing at him. Thank God the restaurant was almost empty. Thank God the lighting was low. His hair falls into his face, and he doesn't push it back. He wants to hide, wants to undo what he's just done.

Nico reaches the door and realises he hasn't paid. Humiliation shakes him anew. He can't go back to their table. He can't leave Adrian to pay. His indecision hurts, and anger rises. He turns, hands shaking, and marches back. He can do this.

Adrian's still sitting there, staring at his outstretched finger.

Nico gets out his wallet and pulls a sheaf of dollars from it. He crumples the notes in his hand, ready to toss them down onto the tablecloth. He goes closer.

Adrian lifts his finger and sucks it, the gesture thoughtful.

Nico stands and stares. The dollars scatter to the floor when he whirls and races from the restaurant, utterly overcome.

* * * *

Nico avoids Adrian next morning. Even at the circuit, he makes certain to keep out of Adrian's way. He stays inside the Mercedes hospitality suite and the garage, and when he goes to his motor home he walks with purpose, not looking around, ignoring anyone who calls out a greeting to him.

Free practice gives him time to breathe. Nico sits inside the car, cocooned in memory. His hands rest on the wheel, their movement automatic. If he starts to think about what he's doing, the car runs wide, mounts the kerbs, clips the grass. He watches the track, relaxing back into driving. The vibration of the engine sings through him. Resonance, he thinks, and it reminds him of Adrian, of Adrian's hands. That familiar anxious feeling returns, curled in the pit of his stomach. It's not nervousness, Nico realises now. Nervousness tastes different.

He pushes his thoughts away and focuses. He surrenders to instinct, marries it with control, and puts in his laps, feeds data back to the team. His head feels drained by the time he makes it back to the pits. Nico releases himself from the car and goes in search of Adrian.

The anxiety is full-blown panic now. His legs feel liquid. Desire thrums inside him like the note of an engine at top speed. When he sees Adrian cross into the paddock from the Force India garage, he hurries over.

Adrian's holding his gloves. His hair is flat, slicked back with sweat and the crush of the helmet. He glances at Nico and pauses, hunted wariness in his eyes. "Nico." He pairs the gloves, twists them between his hands.

Nico stares at the gloves, at Adrian's hands. He makes himself look up at Adrian's face. "Please." Wrong word. God, he's making a fool of himself. His tongue feels heavy. He can't think straight. "Adrian—your hands..."

Adrian drops his gaze, stares at his hands, then looks up, his decision made. "Come on."

"Mine's closer." Nico catches Adrian's sleeve, pulls him towards the motor home. He doesn't know how he can walk. Need burns through him, violent and demanding. The anxiety has become frenzy.

Up the steps, through the door. A slam, the click of the lock. Adrian standing too close, tall and shadowed, eyes glinting in the half light as he puts a hand to Nico's face. Nico almost falls at the touch, a tracery of feather-light fingertips over his cheek. He whimpers, sinking into the comfort of Adrian's kindness.

Adrian strokes over the curve of Nico's cheek, across his nose, up to his brows, into his hair. The fingers tighten, grip hard, as Adrian seizes a handful of hair and brings Nico closer. Adrian's eyes darken, his intention clear, and Nico struggles. He doesn't want a kiss. It's not about that.

He wrenches free and drops to his knees. The sense of Adrian's confusion and disappointment follows him down. Nico buries his face against Adrian's belly, the satin-scratch of the race suit rubbing his cheek, wiping away Adrian's touch. He waits for a question, a comment, but Adrian doesn't speak. Instead, Adrian slides gentle fingers through his hair and tilts Nico's head back.

"God. Yes. Adrian." Nico's voice is hoarse.

Adrian doesn't reply. He holds out his hands in offering.

Nico nuzzles against Adrian's hands, breathing in their scent. He extends his tongue and licks at the skin, tongue-tip flickering over the palms, tasting exertion and gloves and the car, an electric charge of taste that shoots straight to his cock and makes him hard. He cricks his head further back and squashes down on the uncomfortable floor as he licks along the outside of Adrian's hands, as if he's drawing their outline with his tongue.

Ever obliging, Adrian spreads his fingers wide. He makes a muffled noise, a half groan, as Nico's tongue curls around each digit and licks into the delicate, ticklish space between each finger. When Nico finishes both hands, he takes Adrian's left thumb in his mouth and rakes it with his teeth.

Adrian's breath catches, comes faster. Tension gathers, resonates between them.

Nico sucks Adrian's thumb. The taste, the texture, the reality of it makes him weak. His body feels fluid. Darkness surrounds him, his focus narrowing to encompass only Adrian's hands. Nico works slowly, savouring every moment. He sucks each one of Adrian's fingers, feeling them solid, warm, sometimes wriggly on his tongue, within the confines of his mouth.

"Wait. Wait." Adrian pulls away, stumbling back across the cramped quarters of the motor home. His face is drawn, his body taut with need. Nico follows him on hands and knees, prowling. Adrian bumps against a long couch and sits down. His breathing is erratic and heavy, the front of his race suit tented by his erection. Adrian tears at the collar, loosening the Velcro fastener.

Nico continues where he left off. Adrian's fingers are wet from his worship. It's odd to take them, slippery-smooth, into his mouth again. Adrian twists his hand, paints his free fingers across Nico's face. Cold, slick; Nico feels saliva dry on his skin. Above him, Adrian groans and pulls one hand free to stroke through Nico's hair. Taking Nico's chin, Adrian turns his face up. A moment later, Adrian leans down, slips his fingers from Nico's mouth, and kisses him.

Surprise holds Nico still. He wants to protest, but Adrian's lips are soft against his, the pressure insistent. Nico opens his mouth and sucks on Adrian's tongue. It's not the same. Rocking back, Nico dips his head in search of Adrian's hands. "Let me. Please let me."

Adrian grabs at his shoulders. "Get on top of me."

The command startles him, but Nico clambers up onto the couch. Adrian lies back, and Nico kneels astride. He's panting, snatching greedily at Adrian's fingers, sucking the tips with luxurious, lascivious satisfaction.

"Sexy," Adrian gasps, bucking up. "Fuck. This is sexy. You're sexy." His voice is strangled. He grips Nico's hip with his free hand and thrusts hard, grinding, grinding. "Yeah. Oh fuck. Nico."

Nico's aware of Adrian's cock stuffed and trussed beneath him. He's aware of the ache inside him, of the heady desire to be possessed. His own prick is hard and leaking, but that's not what this is about. It's beyond sex, this need, deeper than orgasm, but right now the combination, the promise of release, is a siren call.

Adrian tears at their race suits. One-handed, he can't unfasten Nico's coveralls, but he can manage his own. Velcro rips, the sound harsh. He squirms, pushes at the flameproof underwear. His cock springs out. "Maybe—do you want..."

Nico stares, lips slack, wet, Adrian's fingers slipping free.

Adrian curses again. He pushes Nico's head down. "Suck me. Put that hot mouth on my cock and suck me."

Nico whines and resists. "Fingers."

"You can have them, too." Adrian wraps his hand around his cock.

Nico eats at him, licking at his fingers, sucking, making Adrian all wet. Saliva drools and smudges, wet, sticky, mixing with pre-come. The taste is salt, the sea and ozone. Liquid, slurpy sounds fill Nico's head, dirty counterpoint to Adrian's breathy gasps. Adrian's hand moves, squeezing at first, then up and down as he jerks off into Nico's mouth.

"Oh, God." Adrian thrusts harder. His body arches, hips pumping, hand moving faster, fist bruising Nico's lips. "Fuck. Nico. Yes. Yes."

A whimper breaks from Nico. He tries to cram as much of Adrian's cock, Adrian's hand, inside his mouth. A squirt of bitterness, scalding heat, then a flood. He tries to catch it, laps at it, but it spills from his tongue and dribbles from his lips. Adrian rocks into him, riding the orgasm. Nico mewls through it, a single resonating note.

Adrian lies still. Nico cleans him with little delicate licks.

"Nico. Shit. Nico." Adrian shakes free one of his hands and sets his fingers beneath Nico's chin. He lifts Nico's head and offers a crooked smile, a soft, hesitant laugh. "You...?"

Nico takes a breath. "I don't need—it's not necessary—"

Adrian pulls Nico down into another kiss, swift and fierce. "Very necessary," he murmurs against Nico's lips. "I want to see you come."

Nico shakes his head, but Adrian's busy with his race suit, using both hands this time to unfasten the coveralls. Adrian murmurs as he pulls at the long underwear, then finally he frees Nico's cock.

"You want this." Adrian reaches out, cups his hands over Nico's prick, but doesn't touch. "Say it. Tell me you want my hands on your cock."

Nico gasps, pole-axed by the surge of lust. "Yes. I want it. I-I want your hands on me. On my cock."

Adrian touches him with both hands, fingers lacing tight. Nico shudders, his mouth dropping open. The sensation shakes him to the core. He can't even make a sound, is reduced to ecstasy while the silence roars inside his head, consuming him. Reality and fantasy flash and merge. Adrian strokes him, wet grip, wet sounds, everything fluid and slick, and suddenly Nico's coming, orgasm like a shot to the heart, and he's making lacy wet webs over Adrian's fingers, across Adrian's race suit.

Nico cries out and crashes, burning up, head spinning, exhausted.

There's nothing for a long moment, nothing but the sound of his fractured breathing. He's curled over Adrian's chest. His hair hangs in his face, blinkering his vision. Nico takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, breathes again. And again.

He sits back. Looks down at Adrian. Wonders how he'll be able to live with the knowledge of his weakness, his stupid need.

Adrian releases his grip on Nico's cock. He holds up his hands, semen dribbling across their backs, striping across the palms, smearing between his fingers. He looks at his sticky wet hands without comment, then smiles. Without hesitation, he lifts his left hand and begins to lick it clean. He offers Nico his right hand.

Dizzy with gratitude, Nico takes Adrian's hand. He presses his lips to it, tasting himself, tasting Adrian, tasting comfort. Most of all, he tastes reward.


End file.
